


sound of silence

by dancingstar



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Slow Burn, oh god so cheesy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-03 06:45:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16321148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingstar/pseuds/dancingstar
Summary: One night, Enjolras hears someone practicing violin from a balcony above him. It becomes routine to sit outside and listen, unwinding from long, grueling work days. At the same time, he meets another tenant who confuses, annoys, and intrigues him, but these two things can't possibly be related, right?Inspired by the artwork by deboracabral: http://deboracabral.tumblr.com/post/171434743808





	1. Chapter 1

            Contrary to popular belief, Enjolras can usually tell when he’s getting too bull-headed. He just can’t bring himself down. Everything is so important. Life is a many-headed monster; it’s impossible to fix it from only one direction. This time, he only just restrained himself from scaring a poor guy into attending the march for gun control next week. In the moment, his brain had convinced him that getting him to go was the single most important thing.

            It didn’t help that he’d had a grueling day at work. No one was pleased with anything, nor would they keep it to themselves. Mistakes that no one made were screamed. Deadlines he didn’t have were missed. It was too big of a mess to dwell on. On top of that, he’d had an exam because of which he hasn’t slept well in weeks. Even further, the barista took their sweet time making his latte, which he didn’t end up getting to drink. It was in this lapse of caffeine that he lost himself a little bit.

            When he walks in the door of his apartment, it’s around nine. The TV is playing some cooking show. Gordon Ramsey is yelling emphatically about a toaster. His bag makes a loud thud when it hits the floor.

            Combeferre startles awake, his head appearing from behind the back of the couch as he sits up. His eyes are glazed and glasses askew. A heavy book falls onto the carpet at this disruption.

            Enjolras immediately feels bad. Med school is putting Combeferre through the ringer. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were in here.”

            He shakes his head, clearly not ready for words yet. Combeferre clears the part of the couch he’s not on of books, papers, highlighters, folders, and granola bar wrappers so Enjolras can sit. He takes the invitation gladly. Collapsing into the worn leather feels like a high no drug can touch.

            Gordon moves on to the oven. The owner is being unreasonably defensive. It seems obvious that mice shouldn’t be living there.

            “What’s that?” Combeferre gestures to his shirt.

“Huh?” He looks down. Ugh, right. “My latte.”

He makes a low sound of sympathy.

Combeferre’s eyes still aren’t clear. He scrubs his face with one hand, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eyelids. Enjolras is exhausted just looking at him trying to blink afterward.

“You should go to bed.”

Shaking his head again he responds, “You first.”

            God, that’s an idea. The couch is too comfortable. Neither of them makes a move to stand.

            They sit there in weary silence. The show has cut to commercial, but Enjolras is too tired to move his eyes from the bright colors of Target’s St. Patty’s Day Sale.

            In the pause between ads, Enjolras hears an odd noise. He turns to ask if he’d heard it too.

            Combeferre, head slouched against the cushion, snores. Enjolras takes that as a no.

            Using the recently unburied remote, he turns off the TV.

            The sound continues. The more he listens, the clearer it becomes. Music. It’s a single instrument, simple and sweet. Finding a bit of energy deep in his reserves, he stands up, wanting to get closer. He crosses his apartment, finding it gets louder as he approaches the window.

            He steps through the sliding glass doors onto the terrace. Here, its source becomes clear. Someone is playing the violin on one of the balconies above him.

            Enjolras sits. The tension in his shoulders loosens. His eyes drift shut, but he doesn’t dare fall asleep.

            When the melody eventually stops, he almost doesn’t notice. His back is sore from his awkward slouch, and he’s positive there’s an indent on his cheek from pressing it against one of the metal posts. Slowly, he unwinds his creaky limbs, staggering to a (somewhat) upright position.

            Before he goes back inside, he whispers thanks to the chilly night, pretending for a second someone did this for him.

 

\-----

 

            The next morning, he drags his heels into the elevator, trying desperately not to think about the presentation he has to give today. He went over his notes a hundred times before leaving and has driven at least three of his friends insane over the past week and a half.

            “Rough night?”

            Enjolras snorts at the understatement. He glances up at the other passenger, who looks as worn as he feels.

            “Yeah, you?”

            He chuckles shaking his head, his mess of curls falling into more disarray. “Nah, no more than usual. I just look like this.”

            Enjolras smiles tiredly, admiring the look of contentment on this guy’s face.

            Neither he nor the other tenant make an effort to revive the conversation, and they continue down in silence. The building is ancient, renovated but crumbling in spots. It’s easier to notice when no one’s speaking. Elevator music can’t distract from the nerve-wracking creaking of old cables. When he turns to check if the other guy’s bothered, he’s already looking at Enjolras.

They only meet eyes for a second. Enjolras quickly looks away, ready to deny any blush on his face.

“Sorry.”

Enjolras feels his eyebrow raise. “What?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

This guy is strange, Enjolras decides. What does that even mean? Worry about what?

The elevator shudders to a stop. He hikes his bag further up on his shoulder and walks into the lobby. Refusing to look back, he speeds to the exit. The air outside still has remnants of nighttime, and he shivers at the thought of walking to the train platform. He grumbles and starts his march anyway.

“Good luck!”

The guy is waving at him from several meters away.

He says thanks through his jacket collar. And then, pausing, “Wait. For what?”

When he turns fully to hear the response, he notices in abject horror that he’s only wearing a sweater and knit beanie– in the throes of winter!

“For whatever,” he says, tossing his bare, un-mittened, unprotected hand in a dismissive motion. He then walks away in the other direction, not anticipating a reply.

Bizarre.


	2. Chapter 2

            The presentation goes fine. No one threw any curve ball questions, and his boss seemed adequately pleased with his proposal. No one laughs or rolls their eyes, but no one applauds or even smiles when he sits back down. He’s dismissed, along with the flood of suit jackets who begrudgingly lurch upright from the leather conference chairs.

            He leaves disappointed. He waited all day to present in front of these people. All this work and no one can manage to stir up a little interest, let alone eagerness. Everyone just nods at him politely as they quickly head to their desks and gather their things to head home.

            As he’s shrugging on his second jacket, he receives a text from Courfeyrac.

 

            [Courf] _howd it go??????????????_

[Me] _I did fine.._

[Courf] _boss still a stick in the mud??_

            [Me] _him and everyone else_

           

            It’s not to say nobody cares, but disillusionment runs around here like a disease. Proposal after proposal, case after case, nothing seems to happen. It always costs too much money, or it’s not profitable, or it won’t look good in the press. Would it kill the city to do something without their own ass in mind?

            He decides to take the stairs down the four floors. He just knows he’s going to snap at another intern if he’s stuck with them on the elevator.

            By the time he hits the ground floor he’s stewing in his own heat, trapped by the several precautions he’s made against the weather. He pulls off his hat, feeling that small relief, before hastily tugging it back on once winter whips at his ears.

           

That night, while reheating some leftovers and grumbling over the injustice of it all, he hears the music again. Without thinking, he snatches the fried rice out of the microwave and runs out onto the terrace.

\-----

 

It doesn’t take long for this to become a part of his routine. From that night on, when he gets home from the office, and after he works on a bit of his schoolwork, he goes outside and listens. He can’t cohesively describe his motivation. Objectively, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. It’s only music. It’s the middle of winter. Subjectively, however, it’s the slot in his day that makes the most sense.

He hears the swish and clunk of the glass doors sliding shut behind him. Tangled in his duvet, he turns to greet Combeferre, who leans against the fence, holding a mug of something steaming.

            “So, do I have to ask? Or…”

            Enjolras lifts his chin out from behind the warm cloth. Not sure how to explain, he says, “I’m waiting.”

            Combeferre takes a sip of his drink, taking a moment to enjoy it.

            “Someone on a floor above us plays violin.”

            He nods, resting his elbow on metal. “So you sit outside, in twenty-degree weather, to listen to some classical music, easily accessible via your laptop where it’s much warmer?”

            Enjolras narrows his eyes, and asks, without adding too much petulance, “And you’re drinking coffee at nine p.m.? When noncaffeinated tea is so easily accessible via the same cabinet?”

            Combeferre pauses. “Okay… point.”

            “And it’s nice,” he continues, “so much simpler than anything else right now.”

            Enjolras looks, instead of at his friend, to the tree-specked horizon, patched with black and deep blue, dotted with the occasional star not washed out by city light. The pavement below is lit with yellow streetlamps, sporadically interrupted by the roving of squirrels and late-night drivers. It’s an odd mix of nature and concrete, a forced, sudden cohabitation.

            He hears Combeferre sit down beside him.

            “Are you okay, Enjolras?”

            He sighs, forming a small cloud in the cold air. “Yeah… I forgot how hard this can be.”

            What doesn’t follow his confession is Combeferre’s usual speech about how change takes time, and how he’s only one person. There’s also that he can’t create a better world if the world isn’t ready. People have to want it, and many are understandably worn down. They have to realize it’s fixable, and that’s what Enjolras is doing: giving them a little hope. He’s heard it a dozen times.

            “It’s not a crisis of faith.” He says, before Combeferre can start.

            He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’ve never lacked in that area,” he says, “but maybe a little in patience.”

            Enjolras smiles, finally meeting his eyes, before returning his gaze through the metal bars.

            Combeferre gets up, a movement far more limber than he could have managed, what with his bones being steadily frozen. Enjolras resettles into the silence. Content to be by himself.

            However, he returns a minute later, his own comforter wrapped regally about his shoulders. He’s also without his coffee. An unreasonable voice in the back of his mind hopes that means he’ll actually get some sleep tonight.

            He sits back down, a gesture made with curiosity and camaraderie in equal amounts.

            The violin begins soon after, soft at first, as if hesitant to break the moment. Slowly it grows in volume and complexity, singing in sonnets and dancing with expectation. The high notes should be piercing, but they’re gentle, cresting over a lush mountain-top. It’s easy to forget, in this moment, that he’s in the middle of a city, where things don’t leap and crescendo like gazelles bounding in fields. It’s beautiful. It’s a little slice of peace.

            It goes on for a while, but it stops quietly. It ends with a deep, drawn note, blending into the background.

            The two of them wait, but the music doesn’t begin again.

            “They played two songs last night.” He intones.

            He gets no response. When Enjolras turns to look at him, his eyes are closed, and he can’t help but laugh at the sight: Combeferre asleep sitting up, chin propped precariously on his hand.

\-----

 

            “Fancy seeing you here.” Is the greeting Enjolras receives upon stepping into the elevator.

            It’s the guy from before, smiling as if it isn’t six in the morning.

            “I live here.” Is all he manages to reply, wincing internally.

            “No doubt.”

            He doesn’t see him a lot, but both times he’s bumped into this guy, he’s already on the elevator, going down. This means he has to get on before him. He must live upstairs.

            “Have you heard any uh… violin, recently?”

            The guy looks perplexed, if not a little flushed.

            Enjolras shakes his head. That was a weird question. “It’s just… I hear someone playing every night. I was wondering if you had as well?”

            He shakes his head and bites his bottom lip. Not to say that Enjolras is looking at his... “Do you… Are you going to file a noise complaint or something? Cuz I can ask around… and see…”

            “No!” Enjolras blurts. God, he must come across insane. “I was just wondering.”

            “Okay,” the guy says, looking carefully at Enjolras’s face. “I’m R by the way. I just moved in upstairs.”

            “Enjolras,” he answers, “and welcome, I guess.”

            “Gesundheit, and thanks.”

            “It’s a family name.” He says, suddenly feeling defensive.

             R, speaking of odd names, puts his hands up as if to calm a riled animal. “No doubt.”

            The elevator jerks to a stop, effectively ending this stilted conversation. Enjolras, just like before, quickly walks out the front doors. He lingers for a second on the sidewalk, waiting to see if the guy– R will say anything. Nothing. When he looks back, he’s walking sedately in the opposite direction.

            He recognizes a faint tinge of disappointment in his chest. Confused at its presence, he shakes it off and starts heading to the train.


	3. Chapter 3

“You a lawyer or something?”

            “Or something.” Enjolras adjusts his hat, not caring that his hair will look atrocious when he gets to class. “I’m an intern at city hall.”

            R’s tone stays flat. “Ah, so you’re a politician.”

            The accusation burning through his chest, he replies, “Not the kind you’re thinking of. I’m trying to change things.”

            “Oh, lord, that’s almost worse.”

            He should have had another cup of coffee. He can feel stubbornness boiling up to the edge all over again.

            “ _Excuse me?_ ”

            “It’s impossible _not_ to lose at least a part of your soul in politics. Anyone who doesn’t think so is just naïve… No shade.” He chuckles, either mistaking Enjolras’s silence for acquiescence or completely ignoring it. “No honest person can survive.”

            He responds at a volume inappropriate for the setting. He keeps it just shy of a shout, but he couldn’t hold back the anger. “It has to start somewhere. If everyone had your mindset we’d be stuck in hell forever.”

            “Okay.”

            _‘Okay’?_ What the hell?

            The elevator door shudders open. R exits, leaving Enjolras stuck in his pocket of incredulity. From the ease with which R’d spoken, listened, and left, he gets the feeling the exchange was planned. It’d felt carefully mapped out, leading him directly to anger. And yet there’s no way he’d have known what Enjolras would say.

On top of his confusion grows a healthy blossom of irritation.

            Two days in a row he’s had to share space with this guy and his baseless commentary. It’s beyond unfair. Scowling, he steps out onto the sidewalk.

            “Good luck overthrowing the bourgeoisie, comrade!” R calls out.

            What a prick.

\-----

 

            He spends the rest of the day under a proverbial storm cloud. There are blank lines in his lecture notes from him breaking off to construct a better argument in his head. _Cynicism is the result of persistent oppression. The government’s system of subjugation was built to prevent change, but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Capitalism functions on desperate people too busy surviving to care about the long run. We can fix this if we just move away from that economic system._

            What hurts the most is that he can’t blame R for thinking that way. Any and all of his “solutions” will take time, something a lot of people don’t have the means to wait for.

            He’s angry, but not at himself, or R (maybe a little at R). He’s angry that so many people let it get this bad in the first place, thinking “the next guy’ll deal with this.” He’s furious that after years of social movements, tragedies, and acts of criminal negligence no one can find the energy to lift their _asses_ out of their seats in Congress and _do something about it._

            So maybe he ends up typing memos like a violent pianist that particularly despises their instrument.

            Another intern peers around their monitor to leer at him.

            “Easy on the keyboard there, Enjolras.”

            He pauses in his work to glare at him. It’s Mike, because why wouldn’t it be?

            “Of course,” he intones, “Wouldn’t want anyone to know I’ve been working hard and covering half your workload. I’ll be quiet. Leave you to whatever you do here.”

            “Whoa, man, easy. I’m just messing around.”

            “And nothing else, evidently.” He snipes back.

            “Hey. I told you my grandmother just died, and it’s been really, super hard and…”

            Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I’ve seen your Instagram, Michael. I’m not a Luddite.”

            Mike goes red, embarrassed, before rapidly turning a lovely shade of dumbfounded.

            “Then why’d you agree to do it?”

            “Don’t shoot a gift horse in the mouth,” he threatens. Now, he wouldn’t hastily back out, but Mike doesn’t have to know that. He just can’t see anything valuable in explaining patience and practice to someone who opts out of a top-tier internship to spend every Friday-Saturday-Sunday drunk-dancing to Post Malone.

            Mike sinks back into his chair, chagrined.

            Though neither one of them raised their voice, it seems everyone in the office had witnessed it. Every intern, new or seasoned, and a couple actual city officials, give him a wide berth for the rest of the evening.

            He feels a little guilty, but the peace and quiet is incredible. Everyone does what they’re told instead of telling off the person next to them. In fact, everyone is so productive, not daring shift their tone beyond “slightly inconvenienced,” that the head staffer sends them all home early.

 

            The walk from the train is the same every night. Recently, though, he’s started walking quicker. The sights of the city have grown mundane. This place used to be so new. It was endlessly fascinating. Speckled brick and oxidized copper are beautiful antiques until you walk past them twice a day. The remnants of once-dauntless vines who scaled the sides of brownstones seem more like weeds, now. He shakes his head at this ridiculously depressing line of thought. Maybe the winter has turned him morose.

            And yet, while avoiding the cold would make sense, he sits in it completely voluntarily every night.

_The music is the new “new thing.”_

            The realization, though logical, makes his chest ache. He doesn’t want the violin to grow old. He doesn’t want the glittering tunes to fade into monotony. That would be worse than if it stopped altogether.

            He doesn’t want to believe in his eventual disinterest. Life is a cycle and the evidence doesn’t lie, but he really wants– he _needs_ to find comfort in this one, small thing. It’s hard enough blindly working and waiting for an upheaval that can’t happen yet.

            Enjolras approaches his building with easy familiarity. He barely looks up as he pushes through the front doors. Without thinking, he walks across the lobby, straight to the elevator, and pushes the arrow pointing up.

            In the back of his mind, he registers someone moving next to him. People come and go at all hours. Who is he to break the comfort of aloneness?

            He steps inside and is followed by who must be another tenant. After pressing the button for his floor, he shuts his eyes and rolls his neck, a weak attempt to wind down.

            “You look like hell.”

            Oh, _excellent_.

            “Thank you, R.” He says, sarcastically, and then adds, “I’m really not in the mood to argue.”

            R nods, looking almost sympathetic. “Long day?”

            Enjolras huffs a small laugh. “Actually, shorter than usual, and that’s on you.”

            “ _What_?” For a deadpan conversationalist, his face is very expressive.

            “Your argument had me pissed all day. I snapped at another intern and got us sent home early.” It’s a vast oversimplification, not to mention none of R’s business, but who’s this complete stranger going to tell?

            R meets his gaze, looking intently, as if trying to gauge his next move.

            Enjolras takes this pause as the relaxing moment he’d failed before. He sets down his bag, so he can remove his mittens. Mid-motion, he notices R’s cargo: a case for an instrument. A small violin-shaped case. A violin.

            “Oh my god. You’re the person.”

            Again, all R manages to spit out is, “ _What?”_

            “You’re the violinist! You…”

            “No! No, no. No, this is… a ukulele. I’m… uh, decorating it for a friend. Painting it.”

 

            “Oh.” Enjolras feels his heart sink. “Um, sorry. I was just… never mind.”

            The elevator grows silent, awkward and tense. Embarrassment would normally flood his senses, blaring alarms in every direction, but all his tired mind can manage is a faint sense of disappointment.

            “Sorry, man.” R says, voice quiet.  

            “What for?”

            The elevator dings, jolting to a stop at his floor.

            “For whatever.”

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras u dumb bitch


	4. Chapter 4

“This is your first day off in _months_.”

            “So?”

            “ _So_ ,” Combeferre emphasizes, “you should relax. At least switch to MSNBC.”

            Enjolras ignores him, not moving his glare away from Sean Hannity’s godawful sneer. What he wouldn’t do for the opportunity to kick in his teeth…

            He hears his roommate sigh. “You can’t possibly be enjoying this.”

            He hums into his mug, a low sound of acquiescence. Considering his answer, he decides it’s in poor taste to mention his daydreams about sending these people to the guillotine. He doesn’t even want to think about what R would think of that. He’d embarrassed himself enough a week ago with that ukulele nonsense.

Instead, he says, “I need to know who to hate.”

            “You don’t need to watch Fox for that.”

            “Yeah.” He slumps heavily into the back cushion. The couch creaks in protest.

            Combeferre hefts his, heavy, from the sound of it, backpack onto his shoulders, and zips up his jacket.

            “Besides, I’m meeting Jehan for coffee.”

            Tone dry as dust, Combeferre says, “Oh, my bad. Wouldn’t want to be _too_ relaxed. Your decision makes _total_ sense now.”

            “Shut up.”

            “Oh, of course,” he says, with faux-gravitas, “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your completely normal, not-at-all bizarre choice to kill brain cells for the sake of…”

            Enjolras takes an obnoxious slurp of his coffee, making it as loud as he can. Now, he looks at Combeferre dead on, and relishes in the uncomfortable cringe on his face. He takes another, louder sip, and keeps going until his roommate puts his hands up in defeat.

            “Fine, fine, I’ll leave it. You’re the worst, you know.”

            “Love you, too.” Enjolras grins in triumph and jokes, “Don’t kill anyone today.”

            “I’d be more worried about you. Change it to CNN.”

            The latch on the door clicks with finality, leaving Combeferre deaf to all prospective attempts at retaliation.

            For a good couple minutes, he listens to the screaming nonsense, drawing on his dwindling reserves of childlike obstinance. _This is righteous anger_ , he tells himself. _This is energizing._

 _Hm._ No.

            He purses his lips and turns off the TV.

 

\-----

 

            The café is as hipster as they come. Bookshelves line the walks, irrepressible greenery with draping vines and curling leaves hang from exposed-beams, and at least ninety percent of the people, customers and workers, have nose-rings.

            Understand, Enjolras has nothing against nose-rings. Let that be clear. He does, however, want to stab his eyes out at the memory of _his_ _own_.

            They look good on a lot of people. Just not him.

            Blinking away the horrifying image, he randomly selects a table by a window. It takes a minute to shed his scarf, jackets, hat, and mittens. Actually, it takes a _couple_ of minutes. It's _cold_ , okay? He’d just bring his comforter, but that’s a… questionable fashion choice, to say the least.

            As if summoned by that line of thought, Jehan flutters through the door. They’re wearing (what looks like­– and must be–) a large, wool blanket on top of an oversized sweater and mustard-yellow jeans.

            Enjolras waves them over, feeling an easy grin appear on his face. There’s nothing more infectious than Jehan’s pure delight.

             “Enjolras! It’s been forever! Give me a hug this _instant_!”

            He gets up and is nearly toppled over by the barely-contained vortex of color and energy.

            Jehan, after a minute, says into his chest, “You’re more tense than normal. Everything alright?”

            “Yeah. It’ll smooth over.”

            They pull away, leaving their hands on his sides. Eyes meet, and Jehan pauses and squints slightly, as if reading small print on his irises. He’s content to wait. If Jehan was anyone else, he’d have retreated quickly after the full-minute-long hug. It’s Jehan, though, so he lets himself be caringly examined.

            “Something– no, some _one_ is confusing you, and you can’t stand it.”

            Not able to be surprised by Jehan anymore, Enjolras laughs. “How _do_ you do that?”

            “Witchcraft.” They smile brightly. “Let’s get coffee first.”

           

            Jehan orders a spicy chai latte, and Enjolras gets a regular latte. He forwent his second mug of coffee this morning, and he can already feel himself lagging. He supposes, for just a moment, that he should start dialing back his caffeine intake. Huh. That thought pops up every now and then. Yet every time, it’s easier to ignore.

            They get their drinks and walk happily back to their spot.

            Jehan is barely in their seat before asking, “Now, please tell me everything.”

            He sighs, reluctant. “There’s just this guy in my building. I keep running into him. He’s annoying and a little bit weird, but he’s very… nice in… just… random moments.”

             “Nice?”

            “Yeah… I don’t know. The past several days he’s wished me luck every morning.”

            “Aww. That’s sweet of him.”

            Enjolras grimaces. “I think he does it to bug me.”

            “I’ll take your word for it.” Jehan looks skeptical, lips pinched.

            “Fair enough.” He says and takes a sip of his drink. It’d take too long to explain. Moreover, the explanation would be too close to incoherent.

            They take a moment to enjoy their lattes, letting the lull of the café fill the gap in their conversation. It’s a slow day. Tuesdays at eleven aren’t a particularly popular break time, he guesses.

            “That isn’t it. There’s something else.” Jehan breaks the silence without a trace of doubt in his voice.

           Enjolras should’ve known better than to keep something from them. Nothing gets past Jehan.

           He leans back in his chair. “The music. Someone plays their violin at night. I’ve been listening to it before bed.”

            “Oh, how lovely!”

            He smiles, remembering the half an hour he spent on the terrace last night. They’d played two, beautiful, powerful songs that felt like soundtracks for every success story he’d ever heard.

            “… And why does that bother you?”

            “It doesn’t. I just don’t understand it.”

            Jehan tilts their head, curling both hands around the warm mug. “Music isn’t really supposed to be understood– Only what it means to you.”

            Enjolras loves it. The nights he’d used to use for extra worktime, he now uses to brave the chill and enjoy something pretty. He’s no longer an overworked, overheated machine. Now, he walks through the day with a little more brightness and leeway. He’s fallen in love with the heartfelt melodies, and realizing it, he’s fit everything in place. Almost everything.

            “I don’t understand R either.”

            “R’s your neighbor?”

            At his nod, Jehan’s eyes brighten. “Why do you want to?”

            He starts to say, ‘I don’t know,’ but he’d be lying.

            “I thought he was the violinist, but he said he wasn’t, and I really wanted him to be.”

            Jehan rests their hand on his wrist. He lets go of his cup, so they can entwine their fingers. “Oh, Enjolras,” they say, their eyes glowing, “you have a crush!”

            Oh. Oh no.

            “That doesn’t make any sense. I barely know him.”

            “That’s easily rectified. Ask him out for coffee.”

            “He teases me.” He counters.

            Jehan coos. “That’s adorable.”

            “He calls me ‘comrade.’”

            “Pet-names aren’t always conventional.”

            “I don’t think he even _likes_ me.” He says, sounding tantalizingly close to a pining teenager.

            Jehan sits back with a knowing look. There’s a pause, and then Enjolras feels his eyes widen at this admission.

            “Oh, fuck.” He says. The realization quickly washes over him with a burning, sinking feeling in his chest. “Why _him_?”

            He asks the question, but he knows. Even if he doesn’t want to. R is different. He’s strange, curious, and clever for a guy who claims know nothing. He’s the other part in his day that, objectively, makes no sense. And even though their conversations usually end with a shout or two, he always leaves with a question. What will he say next time? _Next time._

            Fuck.

            “ _Fuck_.”


	5. Chapter 5

            Being the busy person he is, it’s been fairly easy ignoring this– this _thing_. The thing, the only way he’ll refer to it, is like a watched pot. It’ll never boil. As long as he keeps his head forward, not looking at R’s lopsided grin, or the big freckle near his eye, or his…

            No. Nuh, no.

            Keep it together. He’s keeping it together.

            As long has he focuses on school, his internship, and the music, _nothing_ that has to do with R, he can wait it out. These _things_ never stay. He’s always been able to put it aside, way in the back of the cupboard, behind the rice, hidden by cans of pinto beans, until it goes bad. Rotten, curdled, moldy... Then, months later, he’ll be rooting through his kitchen and– oh, what’s that? Garbage. Gone forever.

             He steps into the elevator this morning renewed with confidence. Though the last week or so has been hairy, Enjolras is sure he can get through the next five minutes without any mishaps. He won’t snap. He won’t yell. He won’t notice how curly R’s hair is. He won’t.

            “Morning.”

            R raises his eyebrows. “You’re in a good mood. Did Bezos get assassinated or something?”

            Enjolras lets himself chuckle. “Not yet.”

            “Damn. You should get on that.”

            He smiles, letting the silence be for a moment. Then he bites his lip, deciding to take a chance. “You know, you’ve never mentioned what you do.”

            “What I… do?”

            Enjolras rolls his eyes. “You understand the question.”

            R puts his hands up, a gesture he’s come to recognize as the dismissal it is.

            “Fine, fine. I guess I’m a writer.”

            “An author? What do you write?”

            R crosses his arms and leans back on the wall. “Anonymous… stuff.” He makes a vague motion with his hand. “Nothing special.”

            “So you have a pen name?”

            R looks at him curiously, with a look that only means he’s about to say something annoying. “This is quite the probing interview. You a cop or something? Infiltrating the writer’s guild?”

            Knew it.

            Enjolras, again, rolls his eyes. “You’re impossible to talk to, you know that?”

            “It’s a talent.”

            He’s got that grin on his face. That grin he can’t decide if he hates or not.

            “If you’re an author, why do you get up so early in the morning?” No one in their right mind would be up and ready at six if they could choose their own hours. If he could choose? Workdays wouldn’t start until ten.

            “Well, officer, I believe it’s a free country. A free, beautiful country where I get to choose when I wake up. It’s my undeniable right”

            He has no response to that. He shouldn’t have assumed R was of a “right mind.” Clearly, he was being too generous.

            The doors slide open, and R trots out, mighty pleased with himself.

            Enjolras catches himself smiling as well. Betrayed, he screws up his lips. _Push it back_ , he tells himself. _Further into the cupboard. Lock it up. Lose the key._

            He walks to the train, frowning purposefully. He makes himself think about things like Congress, bathroom bills, Jeff Bezos– that bastard… He really should be assassinated, or at least jailed. Locked up. Wealth redistributed.

            Minutes later, when he finds himself smiling again, he pretends he doesn’t notice.

\-----

 

             “You’re in a weird mood.”

            “Thanks, ‘Ferre.”

            “Ever since coffee with Jehan, you’ve been acting weird.”

            Enjolras pokes at his stir-fry. “Med school not keeping you busy enough? Have to make up some mysteries?”

            Combeferre, forever persistent, ignores him. “Did they show you their skull collection again? Have they added to it? Was it human?”

            “You seem a bit too excited about that last thing.”

            “ _You_ seem weird.”

            He twists the noodles around his fork. “What are you, twelve?”

            “Stop dodging the question.”

            Enjolras takes a bite, savoring the taste. He’s really liking this new Thai place. They put in just the right amount of spice.

            “No, it wasn’t human.”

            “ _Enj.”_

            Ugh, _fine_. “Jehan’s come to the conclusion that I have a… a _thing_.”

            He doesn’t like that look of delight on Combeferre’s face. It’s far too happy.

            “You have a crush!”

            “That’s just what Jehan…”

            “No. Nope. You have a crush. Who is it?”

            He takes another bite of food.

            “Enj, come on. I won’t tell Courf.”

            “Not likely.”

            He looks up at the clock, ignoring whatever his nosy friend chooses to respond with.

          _8:54._

            Enjolras gets up from the table. Combeferre makes a sound of protest as he walks away to his room. Once there, he pulls the duvet off the bed. He situates the cover around his shoulders and nips back into the kitchen to grab his pad thai.

            “Is it the violin person? You in love with them?”

            He doesn’t say anything. Even denying it feels like a surrender.

            Instead, he just picks up the carton and fork, gives a pointed look, and exits onto the terrace.

           

            He can’t help but feel a little giddy. Maybe it’s just the cold making him jittery, but… no, excuses like that haven’t worked on himself in a while. He’s in love with the music. He’s in love with it. Being a little cheesy has never hurt anyone, so he’s going to enjoy this.

            Several minutes later, a set of staccato notes fall from the balcony above. As they tumble, they grow bigger, grander, longer, weaving their quick beats into lofty tones. They seem to whip around, leaving air behind. They chatter. They soar. He closes his eyes and feels one touch his cheek. Like an old friend. His heart is beating in time; a quick and flighty rhythm.

            Just as it came, it falls away fast, crumbling bright like a burnt-up matchstick.

            Absently, he finds himself standing up and leaning over the rail. He waits, listening.

            Nothing. They must be done.

            “Wait!” He calls out. “Another one? Please?” He adds the ‘please’ as an afterthought, realizing halfway through his ridiculous plea that he shouldn’t be demanding a free concert.

            Still, there’s silence.

            Shoulders drooping, he shuffles back to his discarded take-out carton. Slowly, wary of his creaky, frozen joints, he stoops down to pick it up. This blanket really does fuck-all against the temperature.

            Then, there’s a chord. It strikes a bolt of energy through his chest. Something catches in his throat. He eagerly stumbles back to the rail.

            And there’s another one.

            Propping himself up on the ice-cold metal, he listens as the notes slowly twist themselves into a song. This one feels different. It sways and rocks like a gentle current, bobbing with a boat in the middle of nowhere. It warms his chest, making him want… something.

            He doesn’t remember when it ends. It’s only when he’s been standing in pitch black silence for a while, that he shifts upright again.

            He doesn’t remember _how_ it ended. It was there– just– until it wasn’t.

\-----

 

            He’s ready for R when he gets in the elevator.

            “Why anonymous?”

            R doesn’t even pretend to not understand the question. A small miracle.

            “Knowing every bit about the artist would ruin the art, don’t you think?”

            Enjolras hums. “Depends on the artist.”

            “Well, it’s me. You’ve met me.”

            “In that case, it depends on the art.”

            Enjolras watches as R scratches his head, looking the picture of inner turmoil.

            “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, I guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only one more chapter babey


	6. Chapter 6

            He gets to city hall in the early afternoon, like he usually does. The air is a bit dense: panic, capitalism, bureaucracy… no different than any other day. After checking in with the head staffer, he weaves through the grid of desks until he gets to his. A lovely pile of memos, forms, and other fun paperwork are already waiting for him.

            Once unburdened of his bag, coats, and miscellaneous woolen things, he sits, causing the worn computer chair to groan. Another day, another Everest of tedium.

            After the third round of copying and typing, he stops noticing how dreadfully boring this work is. At the end of the day, this’ll help someone. A city ordinance will be passed or dismissed. The plaintiff will get the money they deserve. Hopefully. Maybe even the right candidate will make it into office.

            Unfortunately for interns, these good things mean a hell fucking ton of paperwork.

            “Afternoon.” A voice appears behind him.

            Concealing his annoyance, he turns around.

            “Good afternoon, Michelle.” He tries even harder to conceal his mood for Michelle. She does good work around here.

            “Leo wants to go forward with your proposal on roadwork by Fifth. I need a formal write-up of expenditures and logistics by five.”

            Just like that, his mood turns around.

            “Of course.”

            She’s already looking away, flagging down some other intern.

            He opens another word document, heart beating faster the more the situation sinks in. That area has fallen into dangerous disrepair since last year’s ice storm. Potholes big enough to bathe in, stop signs on the ground, traffic lights completely dark; auto accidents have increased to staggering levels. The city has stoutly avoided fixing the mess. It’s a low-income area, and eighty percent of inhabitants are of color and represent a very small portion of the city. The horrendous conditions are hindering their mobility and harming small-businesses.

            Now, they are going to get some help. It’s exhilarating.

            Fingers cramping, he sends the report to the printer at three.

            There’s a billow of energy under his feet as he searches for Michelle through the current of people. He doesn’t even scowl when people crash past his shoulder. He knocks into a few people, himself. Enjolras finds her by the coffee maker pouring a fresh cup.

            His report in her hands, she looks at him oddly, taking a sip from her mug.

            He doesn’t budge under her scrutiny.

            “You’re ‘gonna go far, kid.” She says and walks away.

            There’s such an overwhelming surge of happiness that he nearly punches the air. He only just restrains himself. _Be professional._

            Enjolras has the feeling that his excitement could be seen from space, bursting at his seams. Even the, somehow larger, pile of paper on his desk looks nothing like the hell it was just a few hours ago. Typing, writing, printing. The monotony can put him to sleep like nothing else. _Almost_ nothing else. However, the burst of success carries him through.

            What feels like soon after, the sun is set, and he finds himself quietly humming along the tune of _Sweet Caroline_. Living in this city has really changed him. Jeez.

            He hears a rumble of activity from the desk next to him.

            Looking up, Enjolras realizes he’s one of the last interns in. Jackie, next to him, a notorious over-achiever, is packing up to leave. She gives him an appraising look.

            Taking his cue, he grabs the pile of finished work and walks to Michelle’s desk.

            Once by the window, he hears a faint tune. Leaving the stack on the table, he gets closer to the pane. Barely audible, the tune creeps through the glass. Oh. He smiles. Violin. Someone must be busking below.

            He gathers his things, wraps himself up, and trots down the four flights. He checks his pockets for cash on the way down. Several layers in, he finds a ten-dollar bill. He holds it ready.

            The air outside is unusually warm for early April, spring eager on the sidelines. Enjolras takes off his hat and stuffs it into his bag. It’s been a great day. He’s not even hesitant to admit.

            Instead of turning left for the train, he goes right, toward the busker. Gathered there, is a small crowd of tired workers, early Friday-night partiers, and one family, kid held begrudgingly in place by the mother.

            The song becomes clearer. It’s familiar. He can’t quite place it or the reason his heart starts racing. It’s a beautiful melody, calm, placid, gently moving like a landlocked body of water.

            He stops, a couple feet away. He knows this song. The violinist played it last night, after he’d yelled encore.

            Enjolras doesn’t quite shove people out of the way, but it’s a near thing.

            The crowd parts slightly, barely taking notice to his disruption. Before him, swaying with the movement of his bowstring:

            It’s R.

            He feels his jaw drop.

            After the shock dissipates, he doesn’t know if he should feel angry or overjoyed. Mostly, it’s just amazement. It’s buzzing all around him, impossible to ignore. R’s music has been his salvation. R’s been a thorn in his side. A reconciliation of the two seems nearly insurmountable.

            He recalls R’s nervous defense from this morning, worrying over the cost of knowing the artist. It feels surreal. It makes sense.

            Enjolras doesn’t dare move his eyes from R’s shut ones, immersed in this slice of peace. He feels his heart pouring out, and he doesn’t stop it. He couldn’t if he tried. The cat’s out of the bag… or… cupboard, in this case.

            The song draws to a close with one final pull of the bow. He can barely hear the smattering of applause over the thundering in his ears.

            He steps forward.

            R opens his eyes.

            Enjolras goes to say something meaningful… a thanks, maybe. Upon meeting R’s gaze, niceties fly out the window.

            “You lied to me.”       

            R doesn’t look surprised to see him. He laughs nervously. “Yeah… I did.”

            Enjolras doesn’t ask why. In a way, he knows the answer. No one knows what they mean to another person until they’re shown.

            “I was going to give this to you,” he shows him his bill, crumpled from his tight fist, “until I saw it was _you_ playing.”

            R looks down at the open violin case, but he can see the flush on his cheeks all the same.

            “Sorry…”

            Enjolras interrupts. “But I’d like to buy you coffee instead.”

            He looks up, eyes wide.

            Nerves catching up to him, he adds, “Only if you want. You can still have this if…”

            “Yes.” R blurts, taking a small step closer. “I’d love to.”

            A smile, bursting with relief, grows on Enjolras’s face.

            A great day indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thats all folks


End file.
